MGS: Deep Cover
by Catch23North
Summary: On the run after 'Shadow Moses', an unusual alliance was struck. Snake/Otacon preslash.


(Takes place after the 'Metal Gear REX' incident, but before 'Sons of Liberty') This was my first attempt at MGS fanfic. Wrote it in the Summer of '02.

* * *

SNAKE:

I've known him for about a month. At first Otacon seemed complicated, but once he cut out the bullshit, he wasn't. I like him better now. What started out as a fairly straight-forward disappearing act after the Metal Gear REX incident, has turned into a world tour of comic book and video stores. I handle the logistics, he sorts out the agenda.

It's restful, actually. Since I decided that we had to lay low for at least six months to be sure that no one was following us, there's not much else that we need to be doing. Otacon's cover is that he works for a garment company stateside, and he's scouting for anime art and logos to license for next fall. Like many of the covers I can put together, it's even true. Otacon was surprised when I told him about the job. I said,

"What, you want to be tech support or something?" Otacon laughed then, and I'm still not sure why. Physically I left Otacon alone, because his face isn't that distinctive. I did tell him to dress cooler, which had mixed results.

Me, I supposedly deal in components for hot rod cars. That means I can ship heavy metal objects without people getting suspicious, and drive a car capable of outrunning light aircraft. I cut my hair short and bleached it, then tweaked my skin tone down a shade or two, which has the added bonus of making scars less visible. Doc's and a red and white motorcycle jacket complete the effect.

I stay sharp, I keep us moving, and I try not to lose track of Otacon.

* * *

OTACON:

"Have you ever tried sushi?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Do you want-?"

"No," Snake interrupts me, flatly.

"Well I do, come on..." I grab Snake's sleeve, and drag him into the Osaka House. Once inside the blue and white cloth door flap, the restaurant is cheerful and busy. Colorful fish swim by dark twisted rocks in a floor-to-ceiling tank that covers the entire back wall. Varnished wooden tables and booths are covered with food, and surrounded by people.

"Ohiyo goziamas," the waitress greets us in Japanese, indicating an table off to the left, "-vass Makxt du?" She switches to German, and takes a pad of paper out of the apron she wears over her red kimono. We sit down, and I glance over the menu.

"Uh... ich mochte... dass..." My German's a little rusty, so I point to what I want on the menu. "Und tswie bieren."

"Ah, gutt. Und du?" she asks, turning to Snake.

"He ordered the beers already," states Snake.

"...J-Ja," the waitress nods, after a moment.

"Nothing for me then." Snake leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Dass ist allas?" The waitress asks, looking back at me.

"Ja, danke," I tell her. The waitress moves off into the busy lunch crowd. Two weeks ago I would have commented on Snake's refusal to speak German, (which he knows,) or on his total lack of manners, but now I just ignore it. That's just Snake. He doesn't even ask where I'm -and therefore WE're- going this afternoon. He knows I'll get around to telling him by the time the check arrives anyway. The guy's spooky that way.

* * *

SNAKE:

I think someone is onto us. There was a kid in the passport check line at the border just before we got to Lisbon, and I swear he was the same guy that cut me off in traffic back when we were staying in Paris. There's a car, silver at the moment, that keeps changing it's shape, but re-uses the same two sets of fake license plates, and is always perfectly parallel-parked.

We have got to get out of Europe.

Both Otacon and I have stashes of money -somewhere-, and though I don't know how big his stash is, I do know his cell phone places calls to the Cayman Islands about once a month, and he's never complained about not having enough cash. Otacon knows about my account in Zurich, and how much it is, but he doesn't know about the ammo box I buried in the backcountry North of Vancouver. -Nobody does, that's the point.

Now about ditching our fan club...

Being in Germany, the autobahn is the focal point of most of the local hot-rod action. It's a speeder's wet dream, just miles and miles of smooth asphalt with no speed limits. At all. The German police are much better drivers than back home though, and I'll have to take that into account. On the way into Berlin this morning, I counted the exits, and there weren't enough. Plan 20, then.

* * *

OTACON:

"What is it?" I ask. Snake looks serious. He always does, but right now there's something restless about him.

"I've got someone for you. Floor 20, room 162," Snake replies, "-it's not very far."

Okay, 'I've got someone for you' means somebody's spotted us and we're making a run for it. 'Floor' means he's talking to me in A-B-C1-2-3 shorthand. '20' equals 'T' in the alphabet, and 'T' means he wants to meet me at a train station. 'Room 162' means our luggage has already been stashed at this train station in locker 162. 'It's not far' is fairly obvious. It's the nearest train station.

"You've seen her sketches?" I ask, interested.

"Only a few, but they looked pretty good," Snake says. He means he's only spotted our pursuers once or twice, and they're professionals. FOXHOUND, maybe.

"Great, I'll have a look. See you after lunch?"

"Nah, better make it tonight. I've got lunch with some Firebird big shot," Snake says, casually. ...So he's going to lead whoever-it-is off on a wild goose chase, and then blow up something large. Terrific. I shrug into my jacket, and pick up my laptop.

"See ya," I toss over my shoulder on my way out of our hotel room.

* * *

SNAKE:

That went well. Seeing such a fine car go up in flames was not exactly pleasant, but it did make for a hell of a decoy. By the time they can get close enough to the wreckage to see that there's no body, I'll be long gone. Otacon is already at the train station with our luggage, reading a newspaper. I can tell he wants to use his laptop, but I've told him it looks too obvious. The change of clothes I need now are in the duffel bag in my hand. I make a stop in the men's room, and temp-dye my hair black, then wash up carefully so my skin doesn't have black dots on it, and dry my hair with paper towels. It's a large and busy john, so I do all of this with a bottle of water that I brought, after locking myself in one of the end stalls.

After flushing the stained paper towels down the toilet, I change into my next disguise, and pointedly leave my red and white jacket hanging on the hook on the inside of the stainless-steel door when I leave. There's a black knit cap in one of the pockets, and with any luck, whoever takes my jacket will put the cap on, and act as a decoy for a while.

-Who says I don't have a sense of humor?

Otacon is still waiting, and he looks annoyed. I take a cloth bandanna out of my pocket, and blow my nose in it loudly as I approach the bench where Otacon is sitting. Otacon looks up, and sees a scruffy Polish farm worker going home for the weekend. After a momentary double take, Otacon gathers our luggage quickly, and follows me at a distance of fifty feet or so. We end up in the same line to buy tickets to some city in Poland, and neither one of us speaks until the train has started moving.

* * *

OTACON:

Being on the run is exciting. You're trying to sit in a train car compartment and look normal, while your heart's beating like a cornered dog's. Snake adopts each new disguise and mannerism with matter-of-fact practicality, and a complete lack of ego. I try to match him in this, and feel like an idiot. We ride the trains for three days, changing trains every four to six hours. Snake never splits us up. He never sleeps.

-I hope whatever he's taking isn't addictive.

He's gone through four disguises since Poland, and I've changed twice, but not into clothes as strange as he has. We're almost in Burma, where Snake has told me we have a plane to catch. Across from me, Snake takes off his baseball cap, and stuffs it in his duffel bag. Then he looks pointedly at me. Time to change, and both of us this time. Snake checks up and down the hall outside, then locks the door of our compartment. I yawn, stand up, and stretch my arms.

"What are you this time?" I ask.

"Businessman," Snake replies, "-but yours is different."

I suddenly felt very apprehensive.

"Different how?"

"Don't worry, you're not a cheerleader or anything," Snake assures me, with the shadow of a smirk. He digs through his bag of magic tricks, and comes up with a pair of faded blue jeans and an oatmeal-colored Tibetan hooded sweatshirt, of the kind that had caught on in California for a while. I reach for the jeans, but Snake holds up a hand. He's still digging. A cord necklace with an olive-sized ceramic bead on it, two knotted hemp bracelets, and a pair of beat-up tan work boots join the items on the seat beside him.

"I take it I'm a surfer dude this time around?" I guess.

"Uh-huh," Snake passes me a clear plastic bottle with some white gunk in it. There is no label.

"What do I do with this?" I ask. Snake looks surprised, then annoyed, but I think it's more directed at himself than me.

"Lean forward and close you eyes," he instructs, "-I'm going to put this in your hair."

"It's not gonna like, make my hair fall out or anything, is it?" I had hoped that this question would finally make Snake laugh, but he takes it seriously.

"No, it's going to make your hair blonde. Now close your eyes."

I close my eyes, and lean forward a little.

* * *

SNAKE:

He trusts me. He SHOULD after the past six weeks, but it still comes as a surprise. I pull on a pair of latex gloves, squeeze some of the bleach gel out into the palm of my hand, and start working it into his dark brown hair. His eyes stay closed, and he holds still, even when I smear some of the cold oily gel onto his eyebrows. This disguise is different from the others, because it will need to stand up to close-quarters scrutiny by both the customs officials of an international airport, and any potential enemies on the plane. Tricky, but not nearly impossible. When I'm done, I wipe the area around his eyes carefully with the edge of my shirtsleeve, to make sure nothing dripped there.

"You can open your eyes now," I tell him. Otacon opens his eyes, and seems a little disoriented for a moment, as if just waking up.

"...Snake?"

"Yeah?"

"You learned all of this in the CIA?" Otacon asks, his curiosity about my past back like an unwanted lawn gopher.

"Most of it."

"Way cool," he decides.

"Your accent doesn't need much work," I observe, approvingly.

"High school had it's uses," Otacon shrugs.

* * *

OTACON:

Snake hands me a hat, and says to go wash my hair out in the bathroom sink. When we're all done country-hopping and sneaking around, -I- at least, want a bath. And DSL. Maybe at the same time. I rinse out the bleach, and towel off my hair with my shirt. I'm now the same shade of honey blonde as one of the guys from 'Yotoden Samurai Troopers'. Changing into my new disguise, I wonder what the thrift store clerk must have thought when Snake came up to the counter to buy all this shit. There's something small and hard in the left front jeans pocket, and it turns out to be a contact lens case. They're the flexible kind, blue colored, and I can see without my glasses, which means that Snake knows what my prescription is.

"Otacon?" the bead around my neck interrupts, sounding like a slightly tinnier version of Snake.

"Uh, yeah. What?" I say into the bead, feeling a bit embarrassed.

"Are you ready? We're going to be at the station in ten minutes."

"I-" (Zzip) "-yes." That son of a bitch!

I return to the train compartment, and find that Snake in now wearing a dark blue business suit. He's also acquired a dusting of gray hair around his temples, and an attaché case. Snake's duffel bag and suitcase are gone. Snake notices me looking around for them, and taps the window-latch meaningfully. Throw a Samsonite out of the window of a moving train-car. Yeah, that's normal.

"Got your ticket?" Snake asks.

"Yes."

"I'll see you at the cab," says Snake, leaving the compartment. We disembark from the train as strangers, one a serious and preoccupied forty (thirty) year old businessman, and the other a young (net) surfer on summer break from the university of San Diego. We agree to split a cab to the airport, and I can see the cabbie roll his eyes in sympathy as I start telling my captive audience about the perks of being a vegan (which I'm not).

If Snake doesn't kill me on the plane, we'll be home and dry in North America by tomorrow night.

-

-end-


End file.
